battle had once been fought。 Yarrick’s forces had passed through these foothills； hounded by
Ghazghkull Thraka’s hordes from the north。 It was here that the Imperial troops had truly foundered；
sandwiched between their pursuers and a well…equipped secondary ork force that came up from the
southeast in a pincer movement。 Thraka had surprised Yarrick and wreaked havoc on his army；
fielding some of the greatest monstrosities available to any ork commander； massive avatars of war
to rival in power and stature the mighty Titans of the Adeptus Mechanicus。
For the sake of target identification； the Officio Strategos tagged these towering creations
Gargants。 Similar designs of a lighter class had been code…named Stompers。 They looked much the
same but for the difference in size。 There were reports of Gargants as tall as the greatest machines of
the Legio Titanicus。 They were as tall as the orks could make them： massive effigies of their savage
gods； dressed for war in great skirts of the thickest armour plating the greenskins could find。 Clouds
of toxic gas and steam vented from them with every lumbering； earth…shaking step； and they were
typically armed with more weapons than was practical。
More often than not； their arms were comprised of cannon of outrageous calibre； all grouped
together so that they might launch volleys of devastating shells at a single target。 Atop each giant
body sat a control deck in the shape of a monstrous metal head。 The orks designed these to look
much like themselves； they had red eyes； albeit glowing ones made up of sensors； and jutting metal
jaws that thrust forward； providing a parapet for the insane infantry that manned the gun positions
there。 Each shoulder was a firing platform bearing everything from artillery pieces to mortars and
fixed stubber positions。 Nothing else in the ork arsenal embodied their enthusiasm for war like these
oversized abominations。
It was the wreckage of one of these Gargants that told General deViers he was looking in the
right place。
The Gargant was practically skeletal。 Over the years since Yarrick had managed to fell it； ork
bands had come； stripping away everything they could use from its mighty carcass。 They took the
weapons。 They took the armour plates。 All that lay before deViers and his forces was a rusting
frame that barely hinted at the terror of the original machine。
Other； smaller machines lay all around it； also half buried in the sand； also looted。 They were
mostly dreadnoughts； much smaller than a Stomper； but deadly enough in their own right。 There
were signs that Imperial Titans had fought here； too。 The wreckage of their mighty guns lay halfburied
in the hillsides。 The valley had seen a great battle； so great； in fact； that few living beings had
walked away from it； and few machines had survived it intact。
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It was here that Yarrick had lost his Baneblade and his freedom。 It was here that the greenskin
warlord Ghazghkull Thraka finally captured his nemesis； though he released him soon afterwards so
that he would have a worthy opponent for his second war on Armageddon。
“Someone answer me；” demanded deViers。 He was standing halfway up the left hillside；
scanning the valley desperately； and the air of panic he exuded was palpable。 Bergen stood close by；
shaking his head。
I knew it； he thought。 He wasn’t gloating。 His feeling was one of resignation。 Here was the proof
that his doubts had been justified all along。 There was no need to feel guilty for harbouring such
scepticism。 He had been right； but he had truly wanted to be wrong。 The current question was this：
what would Tech…Magos Sennesdiar do now？ The ancient tech…priest must have known all along
that the whole expedition would eventually come to this。 He must have known he’d have to answer
for the missing Baneblade eventually。
General deViers was thinking about the tech…priests； too。 “Get the damned cogboys over here。 I
want a bloody explanation。 And don’t let the men stop searching。 I want to know the moment
anyone finds anything； absolutely anything at all。”
Bergen looked out over the opposite slope。 The day was still new； but the air was already warm。
There was no breeze； not yet anyway。 Looking westwards； he gazed along the row of tanks and
transports that sat waiting patiently for their orders。 The tank crews were out； stretching their legs
after a long hard run from the orks。 The Sentinels were up on the high ground； keeping watch on the
gullies below。 The greenskins couldn’t be far off。 The hours of pitch darkness might have slowed
them down a little； but Bergen knew it was a temporary reprieve。 The orks wanted to fight。
What would deViers do； Bergen wondered？ Would he have Exolon make a stand？ Or would he
urge them on？ Where was there left to go after this？
“You called； general；” said a mechanical voice from Bergen’s right。 He turned his head to see
the three senior tech…priests drift forward； red robes rippling around them as they moved。 “May we
assume that your men have found The Fortress of Arrogance？ I shall launch an orbital beacon as
soon as I have verified this。”
“No they bloody well have not found it；” deViers practically screamed。 Purple veins bulged at
his temples and up the side of his neck。 His eyes were wide； and Bergen saw for the first time that
the whites had turned pink； just like everyone else’s had。
So； he thought； the old man is suffering the effects of the fines； too。
“Tell me right now； magos；” demanded deViers； “are we in the right place？ Is this not the valley
in your reports？ These are the coordinates I was given！”
“This is the place； general。 All our intelligence indicated that The Fortress of Arrogance was
here。”
“Was being the operative word；” deViers exploded。
“Clearly； general；” said the magos with perfect self…control； “if it is not here； it must have been
moved。 Do not fret； however。 We of the Adeptus Mechanicus come prepared for such a
contingency。 We have the knoent that will allow us to track the movement of the
machine。 The Fortress of Arrogance was possessed of a unique and powerful machine…spirit。
Through our ancient arts； we may still be able to commune with that spirit and learn where its vessel
has been taken。”
DeViers looked far from placated by this； but his desperation seemed to bleed off a little。
Bergen； on the other hand； didn’t know what to think。 As a lifelong tanker； he had come to believe
in the machine…spirits that inhabited each of the tanks he had personally commanded。 He had seen
how much better they functioned when one observed the proper rites。 He had witnessed firsthand the
peculiar techno…sorcery of the Martian Priesthood in action。 There were so many things he would
never understand about it all。 Was Sennesdiar speaking the truth？ Could he really commune with the
spirit of the revered machine？
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Tech…Magos Sennesdiar let out a piercing mechanical shriek； and his adepts immediately turned
and stalked back to their idling Chimera where it sat atop the southern slope。
“My subordinates and I need to perform a ritual； general；” said Sennesdiar to deViers。 “We shall
consult the machine…spirit and bring you your answer。 Have faith。 I am no lowly enginseer。 I would
not have opted to join this mission in person had I harboured any doubts about its success。 You will
have your prize。”
DeViers’ jaw was tight。 He didn’t answer。 Bergen suspected that the old man was simply too
damned angry for words。 Sennesdiar didn’t wait for them anyway。 With a swish of his robes； he
turned his massive bulk and headed back to his Chimera； leaving deViers and his senior officers
halfway down the hillside； looking up； watching him go。
“Damned tech…priests；” hissed Killian。 He glanced over at Bergen； caught his eye； and said；
“Sorry； Gerard。 I know you tankers are close with them。”
Bergen shook his head。 “Not really； my friend。 They only let us know as much as they want us
to。 I don’t delude myself about that。”
“Do you think they really can perform some kind of sorcery？” asked Rennkamp。 “If they can’t；
we’ve come all this way； lost all those men； for absolutely nothing。”
Bergen shrugged。 “I guess we’ll know—”
He stopped short of finishing his sentence。 There was fresh chatter on the vox…bead in his ear。
The others heard it； too。 He saw the same expression steal over their faces as he knew must be
present on his own。
“Throne curse it all；” spat General deViers。 “Back to your machines all of you；” he ordered。
“The tech…priests had better perform their rites damned quickly。”
The senior officers turned and marched at speed to their idling vehicles。 The Sentinel pilots were
reporting orksign。 The greenskins were only two hours out。
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CHAPTER TWENTY…THREE